


Radio

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, set Abundance on fire, twenty headcanons in a trench coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 20:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19449010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Radio is the main means of communication in Ophir, and Anton hates it for many reasons. But he needs to listen to it today.





	Radio

Radio is the primary mode of communication in Ophir (besides word of mouth). Of course, all official stations — all three of them — are state-controlled, and distribution of radio receivers is controlled, too. There are speakers even in the Slums, on major crossroads, though such benefits of civilization don’t reach the outermost rings. People are born, live and die there like animals anyway, and Mother Abundance doesn’t have the resources to spare on them.

Most of Ophir — “The Outer Eighty” — are either completely illiterate or informationally illiterate. They don’t need to think on their own, right, — they only need to do what they are told to do — and they need to be told what to think, what to talk about.

Besides, a factory worker, a nurse at an overfilled hospital, a mother carrying the glorious duty of raising little cogs of the glorious machine — they don’t need to, they don’t have the time to, devote themselves fully to such a frivolous activity as reading. Listening, however, can be done simultaneously with other activities, and it occupies the mind while the hands are working.

Anton hates the radio. It is like a very personal reminder — like Mother Abundance standing in his room herself, her voice right the fuck here, — that he is defective. Despite the ease of listening, he’d rather have a headache from reading than have the same text radioed to him. Fuck Abundance.

And it’s spouting enthusiastic propaganda of the Mother — or the gloomy apocalyptic visions of the OA on their pirate stations.

He likes “Music from the Tunnels” station, though, — the rogue station that can only be stumbled upon by chance, because they change frequencies all the time. Nothing but music, 24/7. Earthian classics: Чайковский, Hozier, Deriviere, Би-2 — oh yes, that’s the stuff. Contemporary things, too, like Niesha’s latest hits.

He knows the station is located somewhere in the Underworks — literally music from the tunnels — and that the ASC know about it, too. He visited Henry once, and Deriviere’s grand orchestrals were flowing from the small receiver on Henry’s desk. Mother Abundance, in general, has a shit taste in music, and such an alternative is welcome.

Today, however, he’s not listening to music — he’s keeping an ear on the official station. As much as he hates it, it can be a valuable source of information: what the government wants them to think and who the government wants them to hate this week.

“The Director is stepping on the stage…” (Applause — then, screams.) “Wait, what’s— Are we taki— I’m not cert—”

Anton is already on his feet.

His mind is working frantically, at twice the speed of light. The new joint training center is on the south edge of D14, bordering C30 — what’s the closest hospital? General Yulia’s… No, no, that’s too far, they won’t get there from the place, there are roadworks. What else… Shadow’s Mercy! But, fuck, would they take him to a simple district clinic? Oh, for first aid, they might — they have no choice. And it’s closer to the HQ, so the agents can monitor everything.

Old maintenance tunnels under D16… fuck, he can’t remember whether they are closed or not, but he has to take his chances. Not closed yet! (He strikes his shoulder against the wall.) Bless Mother’s bureaucracy when it comes to city maintenance. Through the tunnels, up the ladder, up the wall, across the rooftops… It’s faster, he won’t get stuck in pedestrian traffic. Oh shit, they will cordon the hospital — should he go through the sewers? He imagines himself emerging with the reek of sewage clinging to him like a cloak, and snickers hysterically.

He looks at the hospital building from a roof — of course there’s a cordon, and it’s agents, not the Army. Bless Henry.

There! Third floor, open window. He can scale the wall no problem.

He throws himself over the windowsill, scaring a nurse. Smiles, grabbing their hand. “There’s no need for panic, sunshine. Just tell me where the colonel is.”

The nurse pales, and he squeezes their wrist in warning. Bones shift in his grip. “You know who I am?”

They nod.

“Good. Nobody will hurt you for telling me, I promise.”

“The lieutenant will,” they say in a choked voice.

He smiles wider. “I’ll tell them not to. Now?”

They give him directions, thank fuck.

Блядство, блядство, блядство.

He ascends the stairs like on wings, and he knows that in a few moments his breath is going to run out — and of course, bless Henry, there are guards, trainees, judging by their a little panicked look, big and too alert. He’s going to punch _this_ one in the jaw, and knock out the other _like this_ …

“Let him through.”

Anton smiles, passing them and Henry. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He doesn’t hear Henry’s reply, his focus on the half-open door ahead.

He barrels in — and stops.

His lungs are burning, his legs are hurting, and he has a throbbing rash on his palm from an unfortunate skidding on concrete (he’s forgotten about the gloves he always carries in his pocket), and the hospital is full of agents, and it’s _hospital_ , with all the smells, — but none, none of these things matter because Vik. Vik, Viktor, Vitya.

Vitya is alive.

With his fucking uniform (black jacket, _both_ sides of chest full of service ribbons, like a prize hound), and the white shirt, and white gloves lying limp across his lap — all of it is speckled with blood, and there’s gauze wrapped around his head — but his gaze on Anton is clear, if tired, and… And Anton falls to him, gathers him into his arms, kisses the top of his troubled head.

“Alive.”

“Just a graze, Tosha, nothing more. I noticed the sniper in time.”

But Anton can feel how Vik is trembling, and that heaviness of exhaustion that overcomes Vik after being forced to perform for the crowd.

“Should I call for security, Colonel Watcher?” a _pointedly_ indifferent voice asks.

Anton realizes they are not alone, but he can’t let go of Vik yet, and Vik pulls him down to sit on the cot. Anton presses his lips to Vik’s temple as he sinks down, to Vik’s cheek, breathing. Antiseptic, blood — but underneath is green tea and cheap minty aftershave and cherry tobacco.

Vitya. Alive.

“No, Doctor, he’s mine.”

“I can see that. Anton Rogue, if I’m not mistaken?”

He turns to assess the doctor. Would he need to kill them for bearing witness to all this?

Mother needs to not know.

The doctor looks at him with calm amber eyes behind half-glasses.

“Tosha, this is Arter Healer. Xe treats me personally.”

“And have too many migraines for my troubles,” the doctor grumbles, turning to xyr desk and writing.

Anton lets out a breath.

“Our colonel,” the doctor notes without turning from the writing, “is notoriously bad at follow his doctor’s instructions.”

“I don’t have time for them all, Arter.”

“I shall ask Henry to clear your schedule, then.”

Vik makes a dismayed noise. But he’s sagging against Anton’s side, and Anton wraps an arm around Vik’s waist. Vik must have refused painkillers, as always, and he’s probably having a “public event headache.”

The doctor finishes writing with a signature, then presses stamps on several sheets. Vik reaches out — but doctor holds out papers to Anton, to Anton’s surprise. “Ah, no, Colonel, I know they are going to end up ‘lost’, ‘shot through’, ‘set on fire by accident’ — I know you.”

Anton raises his brows at the list of things that happen to prescriptions. ‘Shot through’, he should incorporate that into his own list of ways to deal with them.

“Arter…”

“And since Mr Rogue is here,” xe looks at Anton over the rim of xyr glasses. “Can I trust you to make sure he follows my instructions, Mr Rogue?”

He takes the papers, his heart hammering in his throat. “Yes, doctor. You can trust me.”

“Good. Then get lost, and may I never see you two again.”

The good thing about the cordon is that they are walking down the hall completely alone. He keeps his arm on Vik’s waist, the papers in his other hand. Vik’s steps are slow: he’s in pain. But there is no rush.

“Тошенька?”

“Да, родной?”

“Я тебя очень напугал?”

“Очень.”

“Прости меня.”

“Ты не виноват. Have you caught the shooter?”

“Yes. They were just where I thought they would be. We’ll let them stay overnight and then interrogate them.”

“May I come and punch them?”

“No, I’m sorry. Work.”

“No work for you for the next few days.”

“Tosha…”

“Doctor’s orders.” He’s already glanced in the papers. “I have them right here, with the signature and stamps and everything. Very official.”

Vik groans. “I knew this would happen when you meet Arter.”

The same thing that happened when Vik met Jodie. It’s nice to know that Vik, too, has a bully for a doctor.

They reach the elevators, and Anton presses the button. Vik leans his temple to the wall. Definitely a headache, probably mounting into a migraine.

Anton strokes the thick wool of Vik’s jacket, crusted with blood. Vik’s blood. He’s going to peel it off Vik soon. Maybe he will succeed at convincing Vik to take painkillers.

The elevator doors open, they step inside, and Anton presses the button of the basement level.

“Aw, fuck.”

Vik stirs. “What is it, Tosha?”

“Forgot to turn off the radio at the office.”

“We can listen to it at home if you want.”

He stands on his tiptoes and brushes his lips over Vik’s chin. “No fucking way, I've had enough news for today.”

Vik laughs.


End file.
